Goobersville Breakdown

You think you’ve got troubles? Disaster lives with Neil Nudelman! He’s feeding his family from the garbage bins behind the A&P. He’s arrested, beaten, harassed by his neighbors, betrayed by his friends. Watching helplessly as bedlam rages and life comes crashing down about [his] ears, Nudelman struggles for subsistence, sanity and some shred of human dignity. Sounds horrible? But it’s not! In fact, Lieberman has pulled off one of the funniest and literate books of the decade, capturing the pain of America and letting you laugh at it. You’ll laugh until it hurts.

Goobersville Breakdown

By Robert H. Lieberman

Illustrated by Tom Parker

Copyright 2013 Robert H. Lieberman

ISBN: 0-933124-00-7

ISBN-13: 978-0-93312-400-4

Smashwords Edition

Goobersville Breakdown

Copyright 1974 Robert H. Lieberman

First Printing Gamma Books 1978

Second & Third Printing Gamma Books 1979

Fourth Printing Ithaca Book Works 2014

Second Edition

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Ithaca Film & Writing Works

475 Nelson Rd.

Ithaca NY 14850

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, places and dialogs are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where public figures are mentioned, the situations in which they appear are purely fictional and are not intended to depict any actual events.

Books & Films

by Robert H. Lieberman

Novels:

The Boys of Truxton

Goobersville Breakdown

Paradise Rezoned

Perfect People

The Last Boy

Baby

Films:

Green Lights

They Call It Myanmar

Faces in A Famine

BoyceBall

For Gunilla

Wealth is not without its advantages and the case to the contrary, although it has often been made, has never proved widely persuasive

John Kenneth Galbraith

The Affluent Society

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

About the Author

About the Illustrator

Chapter 1

Yesterday I awoke with a case of cancer. The rest of the day went as usual. By evening things were going decidedly better—I was only suffering from anxiety. The day before it was kidney failure—I could only pee a pint and was seriously considering a transplant. When will I learn to be grateful for small illnesses?

According to the latest reckoning of the labor department (Viveca and the boys), I am well into my third year of unemployment. Three years of staring out the window at the woods and watching the seasons change, with only the spasmodic relief of an occasional odd job.

In addition to being a Luftmensch, someone who can exist solely on air, I also hold the back-up title of being a freelance anything— which is pretty safe because in Goobersville, as they say, you can’t find nothing … Funny though, in my mind’s eye I still can’t quite make the leap from professorial splendor to full-time poverty … Three years. Three years of not having income, and coming finally to resent those poor souls who do. At this instant in time I am well beyond the verge of bankruptcy. I have milked friendship to the very hilt. I slink through town hoping to avoid eyes. The bill collector would be beating at the door except that it entails a mile long march through hip deep snow and the chances are pretty slim that he’d even find our house in the woods. When I am threatened with the imminent danger of becoming a poor credit risk I laugh, whistle through my teeth, stand on my head and do a jig. What do they know of risks? From respected pillar of the Goobersville community, I have tumbled down to cheating the phone company, siphoning off electricity from the power people, poaching, pilfering, bamboozling, wheeling, dealing, as well as making a thorough nuisance of myself—all to say that, even though I have fallen on hard times, I suspect I’m still alive and kicking, determined not to let the shits get me down—which, I suppose, is what this is all about.

But I’m getting ahead of myself again. So much to say and suddenly, I feel rushed. What a joke. I’m even laughing. After three years of nothing I feel rushed. Have to get it all down. Yes. Three years. Final warnings. Collection notices. Empty tummies. No prospects of employment. Yet I feel remarkably chipper for a man with cancer, heart condition, brain tumors and halitosis. And on top of all that I also feel guilty for feeling so good. Or do I? Such conflicts. Such insanity. When will it all end?

***

Dear Friend,

This letter may at first strike you as a form letter. Well, I suppose it is, but please be assured that I am sending it in lieu of a personal note only because of the exigencies of time.

Since my last letter the condition of our family—morally, spiritually, ethically, but worst of all financially—has rapidly deteriorated.

You have been placed on this particular mailing because in the past you have shown yourself to be a humane, concerned and charitable inhabitant of this planet—a cut above the rest. In all probability you have already been called upon and sent money to CARE and UNICEF, supported a family in Seoul, given to Biafra Relief, sent life-giving supplies to Managua and Tegucigalpa. With the Heart Fund, Easter Seals, and American Cancer Society eagerly vying for your hard-earned dollars, I’m sure you are more than weary of letters soliciting further funds. But, please, before you throw away this urgent appeal, just give me a moment to point out some facts of which you may not be aware, namely, that by making a tax-deductible contribution to the SAVE THE NUDELMAN FEDERATION you will not only be helping a needy family, but also supporting the arts. Your dollars sent to me go twice as far as in any other charitable institution. We have absolutely no overhead, no costly outlays for office equipment or help. Our only expense is the stamp on this letter and even that has been stolen. EVERY ONE OF YOUR DOLLARS GOES DIRECTLY TO US. No middleman. No foundation officials raking off the top. Your hard-won bucks are not turned into wheat that is allowed to rot or be nibbled away by rats in a Calcutta port. Your pipe-lined dollars will be giving not only sustenance, but also moral support to a family right here in the USA, right here in good old Goobersville, N.Y.

And here’s what your tax deductible contribution can accomplish:

$5 will provide one full nourishing meal for the entire family consisting of meat, salad, quart of milk, and modest dessert.

$10 will send one of my children off to school with a new pair of shiny shoes.

$25 will provide the children this year with either a

Hanukkah or Christmas gift (please indicate preference).

$100 will stave off foreclosure on our home by one full month.

$500 will provide proof of lasting friendship, will bring tears to the eyes of this writer, and will be celebrated by your name being added to a bronze honor roll plaque erected at the top of Mt. Nudelman.

As my good friend Dr. Malvin Mandel is inclined to say, There are some people who, by virtue of the way they live, deserve to be supported by the rest of us. I am in complete agreement with this rational philosophy and, needless to say, a copy of this letter has gone to Dr. Mandel in this mailing.

Dear friend, even though I sleep until noon, have forgotten what it’s like to be gainfully employed, can not recall the feeling of punching a clock or paying Social Security, I would like to assure you that I am neither having a ball, nor will I be living it up on your sweat-earned dollars while each day you must endure the indignity of being cooped up in your office, forced to don a crisp white shirt on those icy winter mornings, or ride the B.M.T.

If it is any solace and eases the pain of parting with an infinitesimal grain of your wealth, let me tell you that up to now my life has been sheer agony. I sleep until noon each day solely out of necessity—I suspect I may be suffering from either narcolepsy, encephalitis, or both. The migraines that I used to experience bimonthly when you first got to know me, have become nearly a daily occurrence. As you may realize, worry has a way of eating up a person. A man needs small victories to wipe out the big defeats. Instead of granting me a strong back and weak mind, God has screwed things up and given me just the opposite. My kids have even had worms. What has this to do with a weak mind? Absolutely nothing, except to show you how my thoughts drift because of the constant pressure of worry—a pressure that only you can relieve.

Sure, for the time being it’s cheaper sending money to Asia. Six dollars, which can sustain an Indonesian family for a month, would hardly feed my car. But one day, when I’m rich and famous (which is as inevitable as bread molding) I shall not forget your kindness, I shall repay every penny, I shall even adopt a Brazilian child by mail through the Foster Parents’ Plan.

Thank you and may God grant speed to your check-filled letters.

Yours,

Neil H. Nudelman

Executive Director of the S.T.N.F.

Chapter 2

Purely by chance I have stumbled on an ingenious route to economic survival. It is so simple that in retrospect I can’t help but wonder why it took me virtually years to discover it. In its barest form, the strategy consists of just saying No, refusing to buy anything that costs money. No to new clothes. No to new furnishings, tools or toys. No to any expenditures except vital necessities—which, having mastered the technique, cease to be vital. And saying No, a man leaves himself a chance to maneuver, while to say Yes is to make a costly commitment. It’s so utterly fool-proof and clever that I am covered with goose-pimples and overcome with the irresistible desire to hug myself.

3 P.M. Leif comes running up through the woods home from Goobersville Elementary School excitedly waving a piece of paper. I can have ski lessons! he shouts, dropping his lunch pail on the dog who lies dozing by the door. And they give you the skis, too. Look! He hands me the paper that each of the third graders has gotten from the teacher.

Being an American I am vaguely skeptical. Nothing is for free except gonorrhea. I look. My suspicions are confirmed.

And it’s only thirty dollars.

I employ my new-fangled economic ploy, No.

Daddy, please, Leif says, hugging me around the waist. He looks up at me with those warm, long-lashed eyes and I feel myself soften. Leif has always talked about skiing.

We live in ski country. All the kids have skis. All the kids have fancy downhill skis with double boots and safety bindings, matching pants and jacket. All the kids have fathers who work.

"And they take you from school by bus to the lifts. And you ride up. To the top of the hill!"

You have a sled and a whole mountain. Tell me, how many other kids have their own mountain? Huh? Stop being greedy.

I watch the boy’s eyes cloud up.

Look, I say, picking him up and holding him like the little boy that he is, thirty dollars is a fortune. If I had it, I’d give it to you even if skiing is a bourgeois affectation, which it is.

You used to ski, says Leif, looking for an opening.

I used to do a lot of things, I pat his head. Listen, times aren’t good. I struggle to explain and, to my surprise Leif—a usually tenacious little boy—gives up and disappears into the basement.

All he’s talked about for the last year is skiing, Viveca explains sympathetically, rubbing in a little salt.

I know, I know, I’m a shit. But what can I do? Say yes, here’s thirty bills?

Viveca shrugs and sighs. I want the earth to open and swallow me, but before I can berate the powers that be, there emerges from the basement a terrible din. See, I smile relieved, pleased for once at the noise from the boys. He’s already forgotten. Kids have short memories. Christ, if you bought them everything they wanted bla bla bla. Vaguely, I am beginning to sound like an Archie Bunker to my own ears.

Curious later, I walk down the narrow stairs into the basement. There I discover Leif working away, busily nailing pieces of elastic to a length of scavenged wood molding. Little curly-headed, angelic Magnus, serious first grader that he is, is helping his big brother knock in nails at random with a hammer twice his size.

Leif’s making a ski, Magnus chirps.

"I’m making a pair of skis, explains Leif, trying to pin the flimsy rubber under a bent over nail. Can you hammer this down?"

Look, the elastic’s too thin to hold and even if you could keep your feet on, you can’t ski on flat boards. They have to be bent up in the front, otherwise they’ll get stuck in the snow, I explain, feeling a wave of sadness sweep over me, his determination to have skis apparent even to a bumbling, thick-skinned fool like myself. An ingenious economic strategy? Horseshit! I am asking little kids to see reason, behave like thirty-year-old jaded adults. The thought of shoplifting crosses my mind. How do you hide a pair of skis and poles under a trench coat? I follow Leif’s orders and fasten the rubber.

No. Put it here, he insists knowingly.

Really, I don’t think it’ll quite work, I try to prepare my boy for his defeat as he squirms into his snow suit torn at the sleeves, his mis-matched gloves, heelless boots. As I glance down at him it’s as though I am seeing for the first time all the squalor caused by my neglect.

Leif’s gonna ski! Magnus squeals excitedly, lying on his back, his feet in the air, patiently waiting for someone to help him on with his boots.

I follow the team of optimistic brothers as they emerge from the house and enter the woods. The trees are heavy with a fresh wet snow, the air crisp and sharp to my nostrils. Standing on the little hill in front of the house, Leif gropes to find the elastic under the snow.

Here, let me give you a hand, I suggest, and obligingly I help stick his feet in the loose rings of rubber. Won’t hold, I try to remind as Magnus, his cherubic cheeks red with cold, peers over my shoulder, one hand gently resting on my arm.

Hold me up, says Leif, hanging onto my sleeve, his feet now vaguely in position. O.K. Now. Push me, he orders.

You’ll bog right down.

Push me!

I pick him up and get his molding boards above the level of snow and begin to move forward. To my utter amazement he is actually sliding forward, staying above the snow. I let go and he still continues to slide, his feet wobbling in the contraption, his mouth open, but picking up speed. Down. Down. Down he glides above the powder leaving a parallel trail like an Aspen pro.

He’s skiing! He’s skiing! Magnus jumps up and down.

He’s skiing! Viveca cries, leaning out from the kitchen window in disbelief. Look!

I’m looking. I’m looking. The tears begin to well up in my eyes and I fight to keep from weeping. Leif crosses his skis, falls face forward and then emerges laughing.

You see! he shouts, jubilantly picking up his skis, the elastic torn and dangling. It works!

Of course it works! I snap, having learnt my lesson, and quickly I rush back to the house to make myself a pair of those things. Got any more elastic?

***

Leif pulled me out of bed at six a.m. this morning to ask a pressing question. He wants to know what he can invent in order to become a millionaire. He is still entranced with the American dream. The only American dream I ever had was a wet one.

I told Leif that he should try to invent some sort of ray, like a laser, that can be used to break down the molecular structure of an animate object, leaving behind only dust or maybe a little puddle.

Who would buy it? he asks, his dark almond eyes peering serious out from below a line of overgrown blond bangs.

I would. I’d use it to evaporate the Szorskys, the planes that keep bugging us overhead, the …

But you don’t have any money.

Who says? Anyway I’ll be rich one day. Just a matter of time.

Why don’t you get a job?

"Stop being a kvetch. For a nine-year-old you sound like an old lady. Why don’t you go brush your teeth. You haven’t done it in a month. Your teeth are all gonna fall out."

Good. Then I’ll get a dollar from the tooth fairy for every tooth.

"Is money the only thing you think about?"

Yup.

***

One Mt. Nudelman Rd.

Goobersville, N.Y.

Mr. Mao Tse Tung, Chairman The People’s Republic of China

China

Dear Mr. Tse Tung,

It has come to my attention that there may shortly be an opening in your country for a math teacher and I would like to pursue with you the possibilities of such employment.

I have a broad and very unusual background, having taught in such varied institutions as predominantly black colleges in the South, a technical lyceum in the Swedish arctic, and even a school for Chinese students in Hong Kong (though admittedly the pupils were the offspring of wealthy entrepreneurs